April 2005

I have written a lot of things in my life. Not only the Vents which you devour like a rabid wolverine every few days, but also other things: legal briefs, academic treatises, letters of regret, letters of profound regret, letters apologizing for once again doing the things I profoundly regretted doing before, “sorry I made out with your wife” cards, etc. But the one thing I’ve never written is a novel.

A novel has always been sort of intimidating. For one thing, it’s so long and hard to keep track of. If Basil jumps out of the bathtub and murders the Bellamy triplets in chapter 9, people are gonna want to know who the hell Basil is, and why the Bellamy triplets were only the Bellamy twins in chapter 5. Despite my trepidation, I have begun work on my first novel. I thought I’d share a preview with you tonight.

I knew I needed a good opening line. I liked, “It was a dark and stormy night.” But that line is so cliche and hackneyed. So instead I opted for “Once upon a time…” and saved “it was a dark and stormy night” for the next line. Then, I needed a theme. Most people who’ve done this sort of thing before say you should “write what you know.” With that in mind, I knew a novel about a Bantu witchdocter or a hardworking lawyer was not in me. I had to find more familiar territory.

Next, I needed a hero. I finally settled on a strong archetype for masculinity. I named him “Daylin Leach.” However, it’s not about me. In fact the name isn’t even spelled the same. In the Novel “Daylin” has oomlouts over the “a.” Unfortunately, my computer doesn’t have an oomlout feature, so you’ll just have to imagine them. Finally, I
needed a title. I considered “The Bible 2” to soak up some of that name recognition. But after some angry phone calls from my publicist, I changed the title to “Daylin, Yippee!”

Anyway, here is a chapter by chapter treatment of the new novel “Daylin Yippee!”

CHAPTER 1 – “Once upon a time, it was a dark and stormy night…” This sets the stage for our hero as he sits at his desk contemplating life. He is a dashing and well-bathed young lawyer. His clothes look odd, but he knows they’re coming back in style any day now. The law is his life, his passion, his love, his entire being. Suddenly, this dude inexplicably comes in with a big wad of cash, and Daylin quits the law forever.

CHAPTER 2 – Daylin now needs something to do. He goes to the gym to think, and to bench 485 pounds, much to the amazement and admiration of the Swedish nymphomaniacs gathered there. They insist on having sex with Daylin (it’s only fiction honey, and it’s not me, remember the oomlouts).

CHAPTER 3 – The sex scene continues.

CHAPTER 4 -…and continues…

CHAPTER 5 – The Swedes now unconscious, Daylin goes out to pursue his hobby, rescuing kittens from the path of dump trucks. Daylin is on his 15th kitten when he runs into one of the judges he used to practice with before, who begs him to come back
to the law, saying, “without you Daylin, the law, like…really blows.” Daylin hugs the judge, and then dives into the street just in time to save that 16th kitty.

CHAPTER 6 – Daylin is haunted by the judge’s words. Perhaps he should be doing something more important with his life than having group sex with Swedes and rescuing kittens. But what?? Then Daylin has an epiphany. “I need to teach French.”

CHAPTER 7 – Daylin realizes he doesn’t know French. He then has another epiphany: “I need to be a writer” (we now enter the excellent world of the novel within a novel). “I will write an epic trilogy in 4 parts, tracing the story of two sexually
confused Pilgrims as they plan the linens for the first Thanksgiving.”

CHAPTER 8 – The novel is a huge success. Daylin wins the Pulitzer prize along with the Nobel prize in physics, just because they like him. The Novel is praised for its realism, despite being set in the 17th century, and having numerous references
to “Pizza Joints,” “Lincoln Continentals,” and “Big-Assed TVs.”

CHAPTER 9 – Basil jumps out of the bathtub and murders the Bellamy Triplets.

CHAPTER 10 – Daylin has a snack, wins Wimbledon.

I hope you are as excited about this Novel as I am. Soon my name will be mentioned in the same breath as Updike, Mailer, and Seuss. There will be whole college courses on the “Symbolism of Malt Liquor” in my writing. People will leave their homes in droves to attend silent readings of my work. And to think I waited this long to get started.

Tomorrow: Wash my car now, get an autographed copy later!!


Recently a friend of mine told me that I should really try to get an agent and get the VENTS published. He felt that since the Unibomber has gone, there is a clear need for the type of writing I do. I told him that I had no idea how to get an agent. I had heard something about a “casting couch” as a way of getting agents, but I just thought that going to random office buildings, dropping my trousers and offering to “put out” probably wouldn’t work. It certainly didn’t when I tried to get auto insurance.

My friend then suggested that I get online, tear myself away from Footfetish.com for a few minutes, and send a query to some agents who have websites. A query is a brief note telling agents about what you write. But I didn’t quite know how to describe the VENT. The suggestions I’ve received from readers (“annoying,” “Gnat-like,” “a daily dose of dread”) didn’t seem to fully capture it. Finally, I settled on the following.

Dear Agent:

I write a twice-weekly comic newsletter. I can write
about anything you want. You want knock-knock jokes,
you got knock-knock jokes. If you want holocaust
revisionism, but funny, no problem. If you are offended
by obscenity, I can remove it. If you like obscenity, I can
remove everything but. I don’t even need to write.
If you want to pay me just to sit in your office
and compliment you all day (“hey, grrreeeaaaat slacks!”)
I’m your boy.

I then E-mailed this to 200 or so agents. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that some agents specialized in small niche areas. For example, one agent wrote me back that his agency only handles “Amish Works.” He asked me if my work dealt largely with the Amish community. I was about to delete his message when I thought, “what the heck, give it a shot!” So I wrote back, “Write about the Amish?? YOU BET I DO!!!”

I knew, however, that I was going to have to change some things in the VENT. Luckily, my computer has a “REPLACE” feature, which allows me to replace all of one word with another. So I just Amishified my Vents:

Old Word New Word

You Ye

Car Buggy

Daylin Hezidiah

Boink, Schtup, or Screw Beget

Car Keys Buggy Whip

Aphrodisiac Buggy Whip

Another agent wrote that he only represented religious authors. He wanted to know if I wrote about The Lord. I wrote back that of course I write about the Lord, but in highly symbolic terms. For example, Celine Dion is always symbolic of Satan. Another only handled Latino authors. I tried to send him a Vent in Spanish, but never having actually studied the language, all I could come up with was:

VENT Cinco

Hola, me yamo es Daylin. Jorge W Busho es mucho stupido. Hasta Luego!!

I’m still waiting to hear back from that guy. I know that any unsolicited submission is a long shot. I learned that back when I submitted some of my previous manuscripts, including “100 Myths of Personal Hygiene” and “The Complete Plagiarized Works of Maya Angelou.” I know you may send your work to 1,000 agents, and all 1,000 may reject it utterly. But you’ve just got to target that other 5% who don’t (my math was never very good, which explains the failure of “WRONG!!,” my book on math, to sell).

So I’ll keep you posted. If I make it big, you can say you knew me when…I’ll deny that, vigorously. My lawyers will threaten litigation, but you can still say it.

Tomorrow: How the Amish tell you to get lost.

Everyone has heroes. Some people worship great athletes or great musicians. Other people worship makers of fine lighting fixtures. Of course, those people are idiots. Throughout history, many people have considered leading political figures to be their heroes. Churchill, Roosevelt, Ghandi, these are all names of people considered heroes by many. Incidentally, these are also all names of people George W. Bush could not identify to save his life.

Some people become more heroic with time. Lincoln was wildly unpopular while alive, but is now widely considered a saint of the Republic. Millard Filmore was, during his life, considered “dumber than a pile of poo,” but is now worshiped as a God by many people. Well,…actually, only one person: Ogden Brodsky of Portland, Oregon. Brodsky is the President of the ‘Filmore Freaks,’ a group of people (consisting mostly of just Ogden), who meet weekly in Ogden’s basement to discuss our thirteenth president and get loopy sniffing glue. But the point remains.

I have my own heroes. Among them are:

= Pete the Bob Dylan impersonator (although strangely, not Dylan himself)

= The man who invented the word “Buffet”

= All French people

= Anyone who calls for a ban on borscht

The reason I am ruminating on the subject of heroes is the Senior Senator from North Carolina, Jesse Helms, announced he is retiring this week, and I’ve heard several well known television pundits refer to Ol’ Jesse as a “Hero.” Now, I know that it’s easy to say nice things about even horrible people who’ve had the decency to finally die. I’m sure that when someone finally buries a tomahawk in Saddam Hussein’s head, there will be lots of references to his “dancing eyes,” “ready smile,” and the simple joy he found in a good decapitation. However, I’m just wondering under what definition Jesse Helms deserves to be anybody’s hero.

For those who have not, for whatever reason (living a life for example), been following Jesse Helms’ career as closely as I, let me recap:

Jesse began his career as the host of a talk radio show. But not an NPR-style show where he discussed “The History of Angora, and other Sweater Material.” No, Jesse’s show pretty much stuck to one topic, “Niggras” (one must admire a clear focus). Back in the late ’40’s and early ’50’s, when blacks couldn’t vote, or even drink at the same water fountain as whites in North Carolina, Jesse had the foresight to see that they were “Taking Over.” And he was right. They may have been disenfranchised, and thirsty, (not to mention tired from not being allowed to ride the buses or sleep in the hotels), but they were uppity, and they had to be stopped.

Jesse would talk about how up north, Niggras could marry white women. He wondered how you would like it if your daughter married “some ape.” Jesse apparently resented apes in a way he did not resent other animals. He seemed to have no fear of your daughter marrying a bucktoothed, red-necked trailer hyena. When the Supreme Court said blacks could go to school with whites, Jesse said that this could be the end of education in North Carolina, which would have had the same drastic impact as the end of Boar Riding at Buckingham Palace.

In 1950, Jesse successfully worked for the election to Congress of an overt racist and served as his Chief of Staff and “Head Liaison on Niggra Affairs.” When he was elected to the Senate himself in 1972, he decided that he had grown since the days where he obsessively hated Niggras. He was now big enough to hate homos too. He spent hours on the floor describing homosexual sex with a profound look of distaste on his face. Although I must admit, hearing Jesse Helms talk about “filthy schodomites schtickin who knowsh what up who knowsh where” turned me off to sex too.

Jesse opposed funding the Ryan White AIDS fund because Gay people who got AIDS deserved to die. He used to whistle “Dixie” when he got on an elevator with black Senator Carol Mosely-Brawn (Really, I’m not making this up!). He opposed the Martin Luther King Holiday and he opposed every piece of civil rights legislation voted on while he was in office. The Senate never actually considered the “How’s ’bout We Don’t Kill Negroes for Just One Day” act. But if they had, he would have opposed it as “Schoft headed and Communischt.”

So as our buddy Jesse rides off into the sunset, I suppose we can wish that he not be run over by a Freight Train, or at least that he not be run over twice. Twice would be overkill. And we can wish that he and his lovely Caucasian wife “Dot” have many happy years of …”schtickin who knows what up who knowschs where” (it’s OK when heterosexuals do it). But lets not call him a “Hero.” That’s a title we should reserve for people who aren’t the embodiment of evil.

Tomorrow: How to get on Ogden’s “Filmore Freaks” website.


Obsessive readers of THE VENT(c) will remember that I have previously written about the upcoming wedding between my cousin Sefton and his bride-to-be Amy Leavitt. Specifically, you may want to reference the following VENTS:

VENT 4 – Sefton Meets Amy (I have incredible foresight)
VENT 9 – Amy Shoots Sefton Down
VENT 14 – I recommend “High Karate” Aftershave
VENT 15 – Sefton asks Amy out again, tells her he knows me
VENT 16 – Amy says conditional yes, “you must act Daylin-like.”
VENT 44 – The First Kiss, Sefton says I’m a “great kisser.” He vows to try kissing Amy next.
VENT 76 – Sefton’s Dark Secret – The non-kosher years.
VENT 90 – The proposal, in pig Latin, the language of love
VENT 101 – I’m the Best man, Leavitt’s threaten injunction
VENT 123 – Bachelor Party
VENT 125 – Wedding present – re-gifting lingerie

Well, the wedding finally happened this weekend. The job of a journalist is to recount events with precise accuracy. However, I am not a journalist, so I get to make a bunch of stuff up. Here’s what happened:


Jen and I arrived in New York. The first step was to pick up the Tuxedo. The man at the Tux place took my measurements. However, some people refuse to acknowledge they are not the same size they were in college. I’m sort of like that, except I go back to fourth grade. I demanded pants with a 28 waist and an XXS jacket. I told the man he could give me whatever inseam he wanted as long as he promised to keep measuring until I agreed to run off with him. It took 2 hours and a borrowed sausage stuffer, but I was soon in my tux.

The rehearsal was smooth and well run, except they never rehearsed the part about “if anyone knows any reason these two should not be joined, yada yada yada.” I guess they like that part to be spontaneous on the wedding day. I did detect a little nervousness on Mr. Leavitt’s (the bride’s dad–allegedly) part about my best man toast. He had read the Vents and was concerned that I would go a little long. I decided to torture him a little by telling him not to worry; time is, after all, just an illusion. He seemed confused, and not completely reassured.

At the rehearsal dinner, Jen and I met one of Sefton’s friends named Bruce. Bruce had been to literally every country in the world. And not just the one’s with white people, like most Americans. I was ashamed that I had never really been anywhere, so I pretended that I too had trotted the globe. Although this became harder to do as the conversation progressed.

I thought Bali was a beautiful place.

Oh…shit yeah!! I did some great ice
fishing there.

Ice fishing? In Bali?

Yup, caught me a penguin!

Really? Ever been to China?

Have I been to China?? Sure, three,
four, 90 times. Something like that. Say,
one of my best friends is there, guy named
Lee. You run into him?

There are an awful lot of Lees in China.

Asian fella. Ring a bell?

As I was leaving the rehearsal dinner, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Leavitt. I told him that I had met many wonderful people that night, and I was going to talk a little bit about each one during my toast. He started developing a small facial twitch. Then it was off to remind Jen of what our wedding night was like. Which I did by falling asleep as soon as we got back to the room.


We woke up late, read the paper and watched some TV. I think it’s great how even the most expensive, fancy, sophisticated hotels in the world still have “Cheerleaders in Heat” available for rent. Soon, I oozed back into the tux for pictures. The thing I’ve learned about bridal party pictures is that the key thing is to get pictures of every conceivable combination of people. First, it was the groom and the bride. Then the groom with all the groomsmen, then with each groomsman. Then the bride with all the bridesmaids, and then with each bridesmaid. Then with each groomsman.

Then, each groomsman gets shot with each bridesmaid. Then the whole party with the mother of the bride. Then just the mother of the bride. Then each groomsman with the mother of the bride. Then each bridesmaid with the mother of the bride and the father of the groom. Then everyone got photographed with Henry Kissinger, who just happened to be in the hotel. Then each groomsman with Henry Kissinger and the mother of the bride, then each bridesmaid with Henry Kissinger and the father of the groom. Then just Henry Kissinger. Then, the uncle of the bride, Henry Kissinger, and a cardboard cutout of the Pope, who couldn’t be there that day.

The final picture was of the best man (me!) and the father of the bride. I used this time to tell Mr. Leavitt that while I still planned to read “The Joy of Sex” out loud as part of my toast, I had decided to delete all the chapters dealing with Lesbians. Mr. Leavitt’s twitch got a little worse and he started picking hunks of skin off of his neck.

After pictures it was showtime. First, there is the Katuba ceremony where the couple signs the marriage contract. As a lawyer, I insisted on crossing out a few of the more objectionable parts. I had to make a quick bathroom break to stuff the left side of my body back into the tux. When I came out, I went directly into the main room to check it out.

The flowers were beautiful and the organ player was divine. The casket was open and the deceased looked very peaceful. Then it hit me, I had entered the wrong room and was now at the front of the Flanders Funeral. To avoid looking awkward, I said a few words about how Mr. Flanders was a great man who loved his wife and how he shouldn’t be remembered solely for the chronic philandering of his later years. I then quickly grabbed a couple of little crab cakes and made my exit.

Back at Sefton’s wedding, we lined up for the processional. Normally the groomsmen line up by height, but I suggested that we break from tradition and line up in ascending order of IQ. So the Bush supporters were in front, followed by the Three Stooges fans. Geniuses were in the back (why yes, I do frequently refer to myself in the plural).

The ceremony itself was just amazing, everyone looked gorgeous, except for two people, and you know who you are. When it came time for me to hand over the rings, everyone seemed to like my “I sold them for ganja” joke. Although when I said, “No, really, I sold them for Ganja” people did get a little testy. As the newlyweds marched off the stage, I gave the rabbi a sloppy kiss (she earned it) and turned for the final time to Mr. Leavitt.

Beautiful ceremony.

Mr. Leavitt
Tell me the truth, how long’s the speech.

Not long at all, I just say a few words about

Mr. Leavitt

And a few words about Amy.

Mr. Leavitt
No problem.

Then lots and lots of words about the Florida
election results.

Mr. Leavitt
Now listen here…

And maybe a little about baking.

Mr. Leavitt

I love to bake.

Mr. Leavitt

Are you OK sir? Sit down. And you really should
get that twitch looked at. Wait a minute…going
to the doctor….what a great subject for a toast…

As it turns out, the toast went fine. Turning off my microphone did help me gauge my time, although the cattle prods may have been uncalled for. Sefton and Amy were whisked off to consummate their marriage, after some final, tasteful advice from me on how. We all wish them the best of luck. And now that the word is out, I have a feeling my best-man services will be in great demand


A lot of people now view Osama Bin Laden as the embodiment of evil. Others view him as a worthy freedom fighter. Those people are morons. So let’s not think about them. But seeing Bin Laden as evil does not mean he is without his sensitive side. In fact, throughout history, even the most despicable among us usually has a little, soft, squishy spot, all our own.

Adolph Hitler was a vegetarian. Ghengis Kahn would cut off a man’s head without giving it a second thought, but he also loved knitting, pashmenas mostly. Vlad the impaler would…well… impale thousands in a gruesome display of cruelty, but not when someone was making S’mores and hot cocoa. Adolph Eichman was the author of the “Final Solution.” But he was also the author of “Punky the Jolly Pumpkin,” and nothing could keep him away from a good game of “Duck, Duck, Goose.” Joseph Stalin put millions in brutal concentration camps, but that didn’t stop him from wearing his Dr. Denton Jammies and sleeping curled up next to his stuffed BA-Bar doll.

Osama is no different. He may be a depraved homicidal maniac, but he showed in one of his most recent video clips what a multidimensional terrorist he is. You may have seen him on TV, reading a poem about the terrorist attack on the S.S. Cole in Yemen, complete with literary references to body parts flying and blood flowing (I’m not making this up). This unexpected display of sensitivity caused me to ask my sources in the Taliban (our shared love or rice pudding made us close) if there were other poems. Soon, I was e-mailed:


#1 – “Women”

A woman is a temptress
who’ll drive man to distraction
no part of her can be seen
not even a small fraction

Once I saw a woman’s hair
a tiny lock of scarlet
I couldn’t even build a bomb
thinking of the harlot

Once I glimpsed a woman’s foot
as I walked by the forge
I had to halt an execution
my loins were so engorged

Once I spied a woman’s eye
peeking through her veil
I over cooked the nerve gas
boiling in the pail

Once I gazed upon the nose
of a woman from afar
I had to scream from in my cave
“Allah, she’s AKBAR!!!!

America, your doom is near
To hell you all will now go
but to show you true love conquers all
I might spare Gwyneth Paltrow

# 2 “Ode to Yassir (the love that dare not speak its name)

Yassir, Yassir
You are my rose petal
you are my ill-shaven dream
Brothers in terror
Lovers in the dark
The Koran forbids it, but I don’t care
Allah forbids it, but I don’t care
Jimmy Crack Corn and I don’t care
All I live for is to wage JIHAD on your rump.

#3 The Lost Erotic Haikus

I love thee as air
How to show my all yearning?
perhaps beheading?

Are you first to me?
Or is it mass destruction?
at least you’re second.

If I could but glimpse
your sweet face behind the veil
I’d beat you silly

#4 “Monogamy” (in the style of Sheik Seuss)

I do not like monogamy
I do not like this thing I see
I have my feelings I cannot hide
I do not want only one bride

I will not listen to a guy Bill
I will not listen to the Bible
I will not listen to the Mullah
or even to the Ayatollah

I will not listen to my young
I will not listen to Connie Chung
I will not change to try to fit in
Jesse Jackson can stage a sit-in

I will not change for lots of cash
Although I might for lots of hash
I will not change for a cow named besse
I will not change for Sally Jesse

If you’re like me, I’m sure you’ve been reduced to a whimpering mass who faces disbarment. But at least we’ve all learned tonight not to judge a man simply by the fact that he murders thousands of unsuspecting people a lot.

I am, for the sixth year now, teaching “First Amendment and the Media” at Muhlenberg College. I’m frankly a little tired of re-teaching the same course. I’ve asked to teach other courses, but the college always has an excuse to say no. For example, I wanted to teach “Advanced Physics,” but the Dean prattled on and on about wanting a professor who actually knew something about physics. He was unpersuaded by my “No one understands that crap anyway” argument. He then told me to stop referring to serious intellectual pursuits as “crap,” and while I was at it, to stop referring to his wife as “skanky.”

So I try to muster as much enthusiasm as possible for each class. I try not to roll my eyes as I talk about something for the 6th time. I only say “blah blah blah” occasionally, and have only shouted out “Kill Me NOW!!!” three times this semester. But my students seem to like me. I think its because of the nice little extras I do. For example, I will now provide the answers to this semester’s upcoming Midterm:

1. Freedom of Speech
2. False
3. The Constitutional Convention
4. The “Single Publication Rule”
5. You bet your sweet ass.
6. Lemon Meringue Pie
7. Nine inches, I’d bet
8. “Vixens in Heat”
9. “Vixens in Heat 2”
10. My Mom would never let me do that, even if it meant I got an ‘A.’
11. Look, I’m just holding it for some dude. I don’t even use the stuff.
12. Wylie Coyote, Super Genius
13. Yeah, sure, I got a sister.
14. Mass x circumference = the square root of volume (still trying to get my foot in the door on the whole ‘Advanced Physics’ thing)
15. 16 in Florida, 14 in Pennsylvania, but guess what, 10 in Mississippi!!

Bonus Question: Why yes professor Leach, you would look good in a Speedo!

Another thing I try to do is stay youthful in my presentation so as to relate to the kids. Whenever appropriate (using the broadest possible definition of that term), I even try to use their lingo. To show you what I mean, here is a transcript of a recent class (all names other than mine are students):

Yo Yo Yo, wassup? Today I’m here to
get my freak on. I’m here to get jiggly
wit’ it. Why? Because I’m all that.

Excuse me professor, what are you talking

I’m talking about representin’, I’m talking about
keepin it real!

Is this stuff about “keepin it real” gonna be
on the test?

Listen shorties. Don’t be bustin my move, or
gettin up in my grill. I’ll bust a cap in yo ass…uh
academically speaking of course.

Pardon me Professor Leach, but aren’t you usually
a Caucasian professor?

No diggity, cave boy. But ay yo trip, you don’t high
side a homeskillit because yo want to jone his juice!
Check it. Am I fly? Can I get my swerve on? Am I down
wit OPP? Do I got game? The rest is Zootie.

Are you…like…speaking Yiddish or something?

Is the Yiddish stuff gonna be on the test?

It’s not easy constantly laying tube on the hipness wave. It requires a constant reappraisal of my haircut, along with numerous visits to “The Bell-bottoms Boutique.” However, I think it’s worth it to keep my students focused on what’s important, not reporting me to the department head.

Tomorrow: I go to court, walk up to Judge Gardner, and get on his jock. Fo shizzle!

I was flipping through the channels last night in search of some good TV. I had a hard day at work trying to convince a client that “Guilty” was the jury’s way of saying “We understand your childhood was difficult, and we care.” After a while he seemed to get it, and was even kind enough to explain to me that “Insufficient Funds” was his bank’s way of saying “Your legal fee is on the way.”

So I settled in to my recliner, with a bottle of Colt 45 Malt liquor in one hand and a bottle of Colt 45 Malt Liquor in the other (I sure love my Malt Liquor), in search of something relaxing to watch. Unfortunately, “Good Executions Gone Bad” wasn’t on that night, So I tried ESPN (The Uzbek Pinochle Championship), PBS (“Why bears are furry, but not that furry), and QVC (Meredith Baxter Birney selling Rectal thermometers in bulk), but nothing caught my eye. But then, I found what I was looking for: TNN, otherwise known as “The Taliban News Network.”

There were two anchor people. A male, Terror el-Jihad, and his female sidekick Tammy. It was very reminiscent of the Dan Rather/Connie Chung days, except in the latter case you could see Connie Chung’s face, and Dan usually wasn’t wearing a “Death to the Great Satan” sash over his sport coat. However, the newscast was lively and informative, if just a bit heavy on the Bill Cosby Pudding commercials. Here’s a sample:

Terror el-Jihad
Good Evening from Kabul, I’m Terror el-Jihad
and this is Taliban News.

Good evening Terror.

Terror el-Jihad
A Woman has spoken to me! I am now
impure. I must blow myself up tonight, praise
be to Allah. But first, our top story…

US air attacks continued today. The great
prophet Osama Bin Ladin has declared that
the battle is going well, and that we are on
the road to a glorious victory over the infidels.
Here with a live report is our field Correspondent
Achmed bin Achmed.

Achmed bin Achmed
“Holy Allah, we’re getting the living crap
kicked out of us. CHRIST, here comes
another one BOOOM!

Again, a really really glorious victory…uh…over
the…uh…infidels. We’re just beating the stuffing
out of em…

Terror el-Jihad
…In other news, protesters today burned President
Bush in effigy. Then they went to see the movie “Glitter,”
after which, they burned Maria Carey in effigy,
and then beat her smoldering visage, for a really
long time.

The minister of education today said that
budget cuts will not force the cancellation of
Myra Goldfarb’s 12th grade class’ all-nude
interpretation of “Fiddler on the Roof.” However,
the fact that everyone connected with the
production has been ordered “Crushed by
Heavy Stone” will.

Terror el-Jihad
Previously the Minister for the Elimination of
Vice and the Promotion of Virtue (an actual
position) has banned such manifestation of sin
as dancing, painting, Radio, Chess and Kite Flying.
However, we have not yet been purged of our
sinful wickedness. Thus, the list of things the
Minister thought of to ban today includes the

1. Parallel Parking
2. Mutton Chops
3. Going to Get the Mail
4. Lego
5. Eggo
6. Wondering who wrote the Book of Love
7. Getting “all horned up”
8. Horse Racing (regular and harness)
9. Roman-Style Orgies (you’d think they’d have gotten to that
one already)
10. Lists

Praise be to Allah.

Today in sports, the “Fightin Mullahs” of
Kanduhar beat the “Kabul Infidels.”

Terror el-Jihad
What was the score?

Oh, there was no score. They just beat them.
With clubs at first, then anvils, and finally they
just pelted them with stale falafel.

Terror el-Jihad
Finally, the “Career Day” Fair at Kabul University
ended abruptly when the kids in the “Suicide
Bomber” Booth blew up everyone in the periodontist
Booth. Praise be to Allah.

That’s all for tonight. Please join me later
on “Bridge to the 12th Century” where we
bring you a hard-hitting expose on goldbricking
at the anthrax lab. Goodnight, and have a pleasant

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